onnets  to  Sidney  Lanier 

vCli  nderson  Lanier  K 


IC-NRLF 


Sonnets  to  Sidney  Lanier 


Sonnets  to  Sidney  Lanier 

And    Other   Lyrics   by 
Clifford   Anderson    Lanier 


Edited,     with    an     Introduction, 
by  Edward   Howard   Griggs 


New  York     B.   W.   Huebsch  1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 9 

SONNETS  TO  SIDNEY  LANIER 15 

I.     "Since  corn  hath  'increment  above,  below'  "   .  17 

II.     "My  gentle  tiller  of  right  noble  fields"    .      .  18 

III.  "Thou  art  not  plagued  with  any  cares  of  life"  19 

IV.  "Since  thou  art  King,  and  I  thy  subject  Prince"  20 
V.     "Thou  magic  breather  of  the  silver  flute"  .      .  21 

VI.     "When  in  the  blaze  of  honor-giving  eyes"      .  22 

VII.     "Never  can  I  forget  one  wintry  night"    .      .  23 

VIII.     "What  wonder  that  thy  voice  is  true  of  sound"  24 

OTHER  LYRICS 25 

Love's    Reserve 27 

Hymn  to  the  Great  Artist 28 

The  American   Philomel 29 

Forest    Elixirs 31 

Death  in  Life 33 

Wilhelmein 35 

Five  O'Clock  Tea 36 

The  Happiest 37 

To  Mrs.  Vinnie  Ream  Hoxie 38 

Benvenuto  Cellini 39 

The  Men   Behind  the  Books 40 

330396 


PAQB 

Metric   Genesis 41 

Transformation 42 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 4,3 

Keats  and  Fanny  B. 44 

The  Greatest  of  These  Is  Love 45 

His  Silent  Flute 46 

To  a   Poet  Dying  Young 47 

Acknowledgment 48 

The  Western  Gate    .      .  49 


Introduction 


INTRODUCTION 

"GoD  gave  us  our  relatives;  we  thank  the  Lord 
He  let  us  choose  our  friends,"  the  modern 
scoffer  has  it — indicating  the  deeper  significance 
in  the  spirtual  relationship  freely  chosen.  When, 
however,  to  the  deep  bond  of  blood  is  added  the 
bond  of  friendship:  when  the  fine  spiritual  re 
lationship  crowns  the  family  affection:  then  in 
deed  is  the  union  rare  and  wonderful.  Such 
was  the  love  of  Clifford  and  Sidney  Lanier — the 
love  that  found  its  finest  literary  expression  in 
the  sonnets  that  follow. 

In  the  Lanier  brothers  was  the  best  blood  of  the 
old  Southland,  developing  to  fine,  chivalrous 
manhood,  touched  with  that  tenderness  that 
crowns  the  man  with  the  woman's  refinement  of 
feeling  and  appreciation.  Intimately  together 
in  boyhood  and  early  college  days,  they  fought 
through  the  splendid  losing  fight  of  the  war, 
much  of  the  time  in  close  association.  Sidney 
suffered  captivity,  while  Clifford  was  ship 
wrecked,  but  fortunately  escaped  that  period  of 
imprisonment,  amid  the  horrors  of  Point  Lookout 
prison,  that  broke  Sidney's  health  and  perhaps 

[9] 


caused  his  sadly  early  death.  Devoted  patriots, 
keeping  faith  with  their  dear  lost  cause,  the 
brothers  had  in  common  that  generosity  of  view 
and  magnanimity  of  spirit  that  made  them  ac 
cept  the  larger  American  ideals  and  cooperate  in 
building  the  New  South  that  is  part  of  the  new 
nation. 

Younger  by  two  years  and  only  less  gifted  than 
his  marvelous  brother,  it  seemed  to  Clifford,  in 
the  bitter  time  of  reconstruction,  that  his  duty 
was  to  put  aside,  as  avocation,  his  longings  for 
a  literary  career,  and  accept  the  less  attractive 
sphere  of  business  life.  It  was  necessary  for 
some  one  of  the  family  to  shoulder  the  material 
problem,  and  Clifford  cheerfully  accepted  it,  that 
Sidney  might  have  the  fuller  freedom.  A  letter 
of  their  father  to  Clifford,  under  date  of  June 
23rd,  1878,  gives  the  situation  of  Clifford's  life 
at  the  age  of  thirty- four: 

"What  you  say  relative  to  the  distinction  other 
men  have  won  in  the  world  brings  to  me  an  almost 
painful  sense  of  your  sacrifices.  I  do  indeed 
daily  think  of  you  as  a  hero,  who  has  had  the 
courage  to  repress  aspirations  for  distinction, 

[10] 


with  the  view  of  benefiting  others.  On  the  no 
tion  that  what  could  not  be  well  helped  must  be 
borne  (for  you  and  I  have  been  environed  with 
circumstances  hard  to  deal  with)  I  have  re 
luctantly  acquiesced  in  your  continued  uncon 
genial  vocation.  But  the  fact  of  acquiescence 
was  only  possible,  first  on  the  idea  that  you  were 
thereby  rendering  important  aid  to  dependent 
relatives,  and,  second,  in  the  hope  that  every 
succeeding  year  would  somehow  bring  about  a 
change.  ...  I  have  not  been  without  fear  that 
in  the  midst  of  your  brave  work  you  have  had 
moments  of  repining." 

If  there  were  moments  of  regret,  the  sacrifice 
was  made  gladly  and  continued  bravely. 
Though  Clifford  might  not  wed  the  muse,  she 
remained  a  sister  to  him,  and  his  output  in  the 
avocation  of  letters  was  significant  and  worthy. 

In  Sidney  Lanier's  heroic  struggles  with  ill- 
health  and  material  difficulties,  there  were  many 
times  when  he  had  to  call  for  help  to  the  brother 
who  stood  behind  his  aspirations — calls  so  pa 
thetic  as  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  as  one  reads 
them  in  the  tender  brother  letters.  To  these  ap- 

[11] 


peals,  made  confidently,  if  reluctantly,  the  re 
sponse  was  always  swift  and  glad.  Thus  some  of 
the  laurel  is  due  the  one  who  helped  make  possi 
ble  the  full-crowned  song. 

When  the  material  help  was  sent,  it  was  trans 
figured,  not  only  by  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
given,  but  by  an  accompanying  sonnet,  voicing, 
beyond  the  power  of  prose,  the  brother  love.  It 
is  these  sonnets,  kept  lovingly  by  SidneyLanier, 
and  valued  highly  by  him  as  poetry  as  well  as  for 
love's  sake,  that  are  here  printed  for  the  first 
time,  with  two  exceptions;  one  having  appeared 
in  the  Independent  and  one  in  the  New  York 
Times,  shortly  after  Clifford  Lanier's  death. 
Sincere,  direct,  beautiful,  and  weighted  with 
thought,  they  have  at  times  a  Shakespearian 
quality,  reminding  us  of  that  unmatched  cycle 
of  songs  of  friendship.  Brief  and  few  as  these 
sonnets  are,  it  were  a  pity  should  they  not  live 
for  a  larger  circle,  not  only  for  beauty's  sake, 
but  to  strengthen  our  faith  in  love. 

The  lyrics  following  these  sonnets  are  selected 
from  the  little  volume  Apollo  and  Keats,  pub 
lished  privately  in  1902.  Chiefly  personal  in 


character,  delicate  in  music,  always  sincere  ex 
pression  of  thought  and  mood,  they  belong  with 
the  sonnets  as  a  memorial  expressing  the  spirit 
and  character  of  one  of  nature's  gentlemen, 
generous,  gifted,  fine  and  true — Clifford  Lanier. 
EDWARD  HOWARD  GRIGGS. 


[13] 


SONNETS  TO  SIDNEY  LANIER 


SINCE  corn  hath  "increment  above,  below;" 
Extracteth  life  from  wind  and  sun  and  rain, 
Disdaining  naught  by  which  to  germ  and  grow, 
And  yearning  ever  for  its  golden  grain : 
So  canst  thou  never  by  the  subtlest  art 
Discover  whence  its  larger  growth  hath  come; 
To  which,  or  root  or  stem  or  other  part, 
Its  strength  imparted  is  by  all  or  some. 
Thou  canst  not  tell  the  aid  it  hath  of  each — 
The  glow  of  Heaven  or  Earth's  warm-clasping 

mould. 

Then  rest  thee  well  content:  thy  gospel  teach 
In  tuneful  numbers  worth  far  more  than  gold. 
This  doubtful  merit  is  the  meed  I  gain : 
True  poets  grow  by  "help"  of  sun  and  rain. 

(February  20,  1875.    To  thy  call  for  help,  received  today.) 


The  editor  is  responsible  for  a  few  verbal  or  metrical  correc 
tions  in  certain  of  the  sonnets — changes  in  most  instances  indi 
cated  by  the  author. 


[17] 


II 


MY  gentle  tiller  of  right  noble  fields, 
Thou  tuneful  shepherd  of  the  oaten  reed, 
How  far  above  the  false  capricious  yields 
Of  swarthy  delvers  in  the  mines  of  greed 
Is  thy  full  gleaning  of  the  poet's  corn, 
Thy  shepherding  of  melodies  divine, 
Thy  spiritual  tilth,  whereof  is  born 
A  harvest  satisfying,  rich,  benign ! 
What  opulence  of  fickle  treasured  gold 
Can  with  thy  real  gain  its  wealth  compare? 
Foul  noisome  weeds  doth  that  accursed  mould, 
Fair  luscious  maize  doth  this  soul's  garden  bear. 
Then  speed  thy  husbandry  with  Music's  art — 
Thou  hast  for  garner  all  the  world's  great 
heart ! 

(March  16,  1875). 


[18] 


Ill 


THOU  art  not  plagued  with  any  cares  of  life — 

Infesting  worries  of  this  earthly  sense ; 

For  thou  canst  pipe  to  peace,  contending  strife, 

And  win  the  love  of  chafing  malcontents 

By  wise,  benignant  largesse  of  thy  song: 

Thou  makest  of  all  foes  thy  vassals  good. 

If  cares  assail,  intent  to  do  thee  wrong, 

Thy  spirit's  powers,  like  armies  in  a  wood, 

Beat  fine  alarums  of  such  melting  tone, 

And  troop  unto  thy  call  in  such  array, 

That  ere  they  muster,  all  thy  cares  are  gone, 

Their  stings,  their  weapons  thrown  in  flight  away. 

No  hate  can  with  thee  live,  thou  gracious  King 

Of  harmony  and  high  imagining! 

(March  17,  1875.) 


[19] 


IV 


SINCE  thou  art  King,  and  I  thy  subject  Prince, 
To  do  thee  homage  bound  by  love  and  pact, 
I  but  the  simplest  loyalty  evince 
To  pay  thee  dues  of  fancy  and  good  act. 
How  can  I  ever  render  thee  thy  due? 
What  cannot  counted  be,  cannot  be  paid. 
Infinity,  acquit  by  quittance  true, 
Is  only  by  infinitude  defrayed. 
Thus  friends  in  strangest  enmity  are  met : 
My  loyalty  and  love  forever  strive, 
This  one  to  pay,  that  to  increase  the  debt, 
What  one  would  kill,  the  other  would  revive : 
But  'tis  no  war  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelph — 
Each  fain  would  aid  his  foe  against  himself. 


[20] 


f  the  silver  flute, 
her  time — 

enchanted  lute, 

of  lusty  rhyme 
and  deepest  mysteries. 


Sill! 
iii 


VI 


WHEN  in  the  blaze  of  honor-giving  eyes 
Thy  fame  hath  raised  thee  to  a  dizzy  height, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  sweet  confederacies 
That  fill  our  past  with  such  a  tender  light  ? 
Wilt  thou  erase  from  that  full  page,  thy  heart, 
The  careless  copies  childhood  splotched  thereon, 
Or  those  that  boyhood  wrote  with  fairer  art, 
Or  those  unfading  later  lists,  whereon 
The  perilous  companionship  of  war 
Inscribed  its  roll  of  brothers'  courtesies — 
Infractions  of  low  self-defending  law, 
Sanctions  of  love  and  selfless  chivalries? 

All  in  my  credit,  thou  art  sure  to  set; 

All  that's  thy  due,  is  all  thou  wilt  forget. 


[22] 


VII 

NEVER  can  I  forget  one  wintry  night 
Of  seeming  endless  cold  and  weary  march: 
Thy  soul  panoplied,  serene  and  bright, 
As  conquering  hero  through  triumphal  arch, 
Walked  resolute  himself,  and  giving  aid 
To  me  who  faltered  on  the  trying  way 
And  weak  complaints  continually  made. 
Thou,  leader  firm  of  thy  brave  soul's  array, 
Didst  cheer  my  ever  drooping  forces  on 
With  helpful  arm  and  hopeful-ringing  voice, 
Till  night  despaired,  and  psean-singing  morn 
At  last  bade  nature  and  our  souls  rejoice. 
Of  helpful  love,  love's  gratitude  arises — 
No  night,  no  dark,  and  dawn  hath  no  surprises ! 


[23] 


VIII 

Antonio. — His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 
Sebastian. — He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

— Shakespeare,  The  Tempest. 

WHAT  wonder  that  thy  voice  is  true  of  sound, 
Its  measures  fitting  there  where  deftly  thrown; 
For  Music  walls  a  Theban  city  round, 
And  thou  art  Master  Architect  of  tone. 
What  wonder  that  thy  music  ravisheth, 
When  its  own  harmonies  it  doth  rehearse ; 
For  then  thine  Art  Creative  lavisheth 
On  these  the  subtle  spirits  of  thy  verse. 
Amphion,  thus,  thou  art,  of  higher  mould: 
He  rounds  a  mart;  thou  dost  a  temple  make 
Wherein  thou  worshipest — thy  penance  told 
With  flute  and  song  for  dear  Religion's  sake. 

In  faithful  verse  thou  tellest  o'er  thy  creed ; 

Thy  life — all  music — is  a  hymn  in  deed. 


[24] 


OTHER  LYRICS 


LOVE'S  RESERVE 

To  Wilhelmein 

To  Her — my  lovely  and  steadfast  comrade — 
whose  approval  has  ever  been  my  most  welcome 
laurel  (Love's  reserve  yielding  to  the  lures  of 
Art)  I  offer  this  volume. 

THE  poet,  raptured,  gazing  wifeward,  said: 

Thou  art  the  self  of  Beauty  to  my  sight; 

Thy  figure  shapen  is  in  lines  of  light 
From  dainty  feet  to  glory-crowned  head; 
With  perfect  rhyme  those  lithe  arms,  upward 
spread, 

A  pulsing  couplet  form  in  rhythm  right; 

And  o'er  thy  bosom  drape  the  vestments  white, 
Tender  as  words  by  music  vestured. 
If  verse  now  had  the  graphic  warmth  of  sun, 

If  Love  could  body  what  his  heart  would  hide, 
If  thou  wert  less  than  wifely  vestaled  nun, 

Dear  love  of  thee  might  yield  to  Art's  fond 
pride, 

And,  dressed  in  poet's  breath,  these  veils  aside, 
Thou  should'st  be  wife  and  poem  merged  in  one. 


[27] 


HYMN  TO  THE  GREAT  ARTIST 

WATERY  seas  He  folds  in  a  vesture  of  cloud, 
And  the  hearts  of  their  shells  He  molds, 

Till  these  utter  their  multiple  music  aloud, 
And  rapture  of  speech  bursts  the  clod  that  He 
holds. 

For  dumbness  is  not  of  the  work  of  the  Lord : 

Star  spaces  and  far  feel  the  breath  of  His  flute. 
Day   breathes   to   the   night,    night   fugues   all 

abroad, 

Where  far-streaming  star-beams  are  strings  of 
His  lute. 


[28] 


THE  AMERICAN  PHILOMEL 

AH  sweet — our  mocking  bird, 

The  many-tongued ! 

From  highest  top  of  yon  church  pinnacle, 
Whose  glittering  point  thus  quivers  into  song, 

His  voice! 
The  church's  faith  and  love 

Now  seem  to  blossom  in 
Nor  flower  nor  odor,  but  in  sound. 
Gone  is  the  day,  passed  with  its  Sabbath  forms: 
The  zeal  of  Sunday-school  in  children's  eyes, 
Blazing  to  kindle  bright  the  farthest  isles, 
Now  fades  in  children's   dreams  this   summer 

night, 
And  yields  their  fane  to  loveliness  of  song. 

Balm-breathing  harmony, 
What  tenderness  is  thine ! 

The  air  is  all  ethereal; 

The  moonlight,  soft  affection's  sweetest  smile; 
The  fragrant  trees  are  Beauty's  ministers, 
And  dewy  lawns  lie  tearfully  adream. 


[29] 


Sweet,  bird-blown  flute, 
Thou  weavest  poesy  and  lore  in  one — 

Religion,  history  and  song, 

Wild-flowers  and  wheat. 
An  Indian  maiden  with  the  heart  of  Ruth, 
Withheld  by  tribal  hate  from  joy  and  love, 

And  pining  faithfully, 
Might  utter  such  a  plaint  as  thine 

Now  is.     Anon, 

Some  antique  Miriam's  triumph  swells 
In  rising,  crescent,  cymbal-clashing  notes, 
Joyous,  outringing  as  a  peal  of  bells. 

An  alabaster  box  of  Music's  nard 
Upon  the  feet  of  Love  thou  shatterest. 
These  drops  of  dew  are  fragrant  with  its  sweet; 
These  pendent  boughs  seem  blessing  hands; 
Out  of  grim  shadow,  benedictions  come; 

Moonlight  like  Christ's  forgiveness  beams : 
Thy  heavenly  throatings  whisper  to  the  soul 

Undying  faith,  supernal, 

Love  eternal. 


[30] 


FOREST  ELIXIRS 

INHALING  strength  with  every  breath 
Soft  blown  across  the  mountain  way, 

I  stroll  where  autumn's  crimson  death 
And  Summer's  resurrection  say 

The  annual  rhyme  of  death  and  life. 

Smooth  winds  the  road  o'er  covert  glade, 
On  upward  slope,  by  varying  strife, 

For  mastery,  of  light  and  shade. 

Here  greenery  hath  conquered  all, 
And  dominates  a  world  of  love ; 

Yon  distant  hill  is  mighty  thrall 
Of  mastering  blueness  throned  above. 

Here  find  I  quiet  rest  I  seek 

Far  from  the  turbulence  of  men, 

And  mildly  importune  the  meek 
Faun-voices  of  the  Woodland  glen. 

Where  think  not  that  the  woods  are  still : 

For  whomso'er  can  overhear, 
Each  runlet  speaketh,  and  each  hill — 

A  music  hid  from  carnal  ear. 
[31] 


The  dumb  rocks  hint  their  history; 

And  myriad  winged  things  float  past, 
With  messages  of  mystery 

Sent  from  the  dim,  leaf-shadowed  vast, 

All  tender  moss  that  steadfast  clings 
To  warm  the  oak-root,  mantle  wise, 

Some  answer  has  to  questionings, 
Repose  for  restless  subtleties. 

If  I  would  staunch  an  anguish  sore 
That  contumely's  thrust  hath  made, 

Or  into  wounds  mild  healing  pour, 
Away  from  battle-fields  of  trade, 

I  walk  amid  these  leafy  balms — 
Wood  distillations  magic  breeds — 

Upborne  upon  the  upheld  palms 
Of  elfin  greenwood  Ganymedes ; 

And  learn  how  thought  is  kin  to  prayer, 
That  grace,  as  juices  from  earth's  sod, 

Flows  through  the  veins  of  spirit,  where 
Man's  soul  doth  feel  the  touch  of  God, 


[32] 


DEATH  IN  LIFE 

'Tis  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
The  culminating  moon  at  west ; 

A  perfect  day  from  its  dawning, 
As  e'er  maternal  night  expressed. 

The  soft  wind  blows  with  thrilling  zest, 
And  all  around,  in  earth  and  sky, 

Blithe  sunshine  makes  it  manifest 
God's  thought  to-day  is  ecstasy. 

If  wine  expressed  from  heavenly  fruit 
Had  winnowed  through  cloud-filters  laced, 

And  had  been  miracled  to  suit 

Some  finer  sense  than  mortal  taste, 

It  might  give  life,  as  does  this  air — 
Apollo's  strings  were  not  more  tense ; 

September  murmurs  everywhere 

With  thrills  of  faint-heard  instruments, 

As  if  the  sounds  of  all  past  days, 
Ascending  through  the  scale  of  time, 

Had  lost  all  accents  save  of  praise, 

And  reached  the  height  of  perfect  rhyme. 
[33] 


The  mime-bird  sings,  outspreads  his  wings 
On  wavy  curves  from  tree  to  tree ; 

Unruffling  by  his  airy  swings, 
And  by  his  carol's  melody 

The  lake  of  grass  or  aught  it  holds. 

Now  close  he  whirs  o'er  yonder  head : 
Unsprings  his  foe — one  stroke !     He  folds 

His  wings — the  lilting  voice  lies  dead. 

O  crystal  Source  of  perfect  thought, 
This  comfort  in  my  heart  distil 

From  bleeding  Nature,  parable-fraught : 
That  death's  not  ill,  but  Wisdom's  will! 


[34] 


WILHELMEIN 

A  Portrait 

A  PATIENT  sadness  in  the  lovely  face 
That  melts  to  tenderness  within  the  eyes, 
Now  dark,  now  bright,  as  in  the  dew-drop  lies 
A  shadow  brightening  in  a  sunny  place ; 

Shy  dimples  in  the  cheeks  that  come  and  go 
As  laughter  rises  from  the  brimming  heart; 
Soft  folds  of  lustrous  hair;  lips  half  apart 
As  if  a  kiss  escaped  and  left  them  so; 

One  fair  hand  thrown  aside  in  careless  gesture 
To  grasp  the  rose,  down-fallen  in  her  vesture — 
The  rose  is  passing  sweet,  yet  lacks  it  grace 
To  keep  me  longer  from  that  sweeter  face. 


[35] 


FIVE  O'CLOCK  TEA 

(On  Presenting  a  Tea  Urn) 

LIFE'S  haply  come,  my  Dear,  for  you  and  me, 
To  just  this  stage  of  cozy  afternoon  tea; 
We've  tasted  blithe  youth's  many  a  fete, 
'Tis  sweeter  now — the  duo  tete-a-tete. 

If  e'er  the  boiling  urn  was  brewed  too  hot. 
Love's  soothing  curd  would  cool  the  silvern  pot; 
Life  tenders  some  its  wine,  unlike  mine,  thine, 
Whose  tenderness  makes  life  a  draught  divine. 

Infusing,  steeping  love  in  our  lives,  Dear, 
Thy  fellowship  extends  a  daily  cheer. 
Spiceful  as  Orient  leaf,  thy  sweetness  lures 
Like  fruit  of  island  bowers;  thy  charm  endures. 

May  life  continue,  Sweet,  for  you  and  me, 

One  glorious  chat  o'er  deep-drawn,  fragrant  tea! 


[36] 


THE  HAPPIEST 

IF  now  the  Master  of  the  feast  should  stand, 
Seeking  the  happiest  at  life's  festal  board, 

To  crown  him  King  with  garlands,  and  to  hand 
To  him  the  joy-brimmed,  silver,  carven  gourd 

Of  happiness  to  quaff — whose  should  it  be? 

His,  rich  in  pleasures  gathered  from  all  parts 
Of  earth?     Nay,  nay,  the  happiest  is  he 

Who  garners  joy  from  joys  of  others'  hearts. 


[37] 


TO  MRS.  VINNIE  REAM  HOXIE 

On  Leaving  Montgomery,  December  16,  1888 

FAME,  honor  and  remembrance  live  in  time 
For  those  who  worthily  have  sung  or  wrought; 
One  name  is  ehapleted  with  blooms  of  rhyme, 
Another  festooned  o'er  with  braids  of  thought. 
Essaying  fame,  the  mailed  soldier  stamps 
And  prints  an  image  rude  of  cruel  deeds; 
Forgiving  Love  forgets  his  frowning  camps, 
And  writes  in  moss  her  loveliest  creed  of  creeds. 
To  us  you  bind  yourself  with  triple  chain — 
Sculptor,  poet,  above  all  else  a  friend. 
Thus  recollection  strives  to  soothe  our  pain, 
And  would  with  tenderness  our  grief  amend — 

To  all  the  world  she  speaks  in  shapes  of  Art; 

For  us  she  rhymes  our  souls  with  her  own  heart ! 


[38] 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI 

THOU,  sculptor,  bravo,  craftsman  cunning,  bold, 
Musician,  poet,  man  of  many  parts, 
Thy  time's  most  fervid  lover  of  such  arts 
As  body  forth  rare  forms  in  bronze  and  gold ; 
Epitome  of  them  who  leave  the  old, 
And  ever  seek  fresh  ventures  of  new  marts; 
Born  where  the  flowing  Arno  streams  and  darts, 
To  warm  in  sun  his  flower-dipped  waters  cold : 

Thou  art  the  type  of  bankrupt  souls'  sad  loss, 
Who  come  so  close  to  fortune  and  true  gain; 
Like  fallen  angels  shut  from  out  Heaven's  gate 
They  miss  Elysium  by  a  coin's  toss, 
And  glory,  straitly  missed,  redoubles  pain: 
Thine  art,  Christ-touched,  had  been  immaculate ! 


[39] 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  BOOKS 

FROM    cabined    walls    of    close-ranged,    dusty 

shelves, 

Whereon  the  effigies  of  great  thoughts  are 
In  print,  mine  inner  sense  would  break  the  bar 
And  find  the  treasury  of  their  inmost  selves — 
Shakspeare's,  while  visioning  midsummer  elves 
With  queen  Titania  in  her  wee  nut  car; 
With  dreaming  poets  range  from  star  to  star, 
Or  plunge  in  caverns  plumbing  science  delves : 

To  gaze  beyond  this  pale  on  Keats'  dear  soul — 
Endymion  'mong  the  stars  of  Beauty's  sky; 
On  Milton's,  hearing  heavenly  battles  roll; 
Through  Wordsworth's,  know  each  tender  flow 
eret's  eye: 

With  humble  workers,  study  moss  and  clod, 
And  with  brave  singers,  feel  the  breath  of  God. 


[40] 


METRIC  GENESIS 

THE  poet  brings  not  something  out  of  naught : 
He    breathes    into    a    dream:     Lo! — Adam — 
Thought! 

Dumb  lonesome  thought  for  want  of  music  weeps, 
And  rhythm — Eve — discloses  as  he  sleeps. 

Whence  God  does  set  his  seal  upon  the  pair — 
Speech,  Eden  is,  with  Eve  and  Adam  there. 


[41] 


TRANSFORMATION 

THE  humblest  life  that  lives  may  be  divine: 
Christ  changed  the  common  water  into  wine. 
Star-like  comes  Love  from  out  the  magic  East, 
And  Life,  an-hungered,  finds  his  fast  a  feast. 


[42] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

DREAMING  along  the  haunted  shore  of  time, 
And  mad  that  sea's  ^Eolian  song  to  sing, 
He  found  the  shell  of  beauty — rhythmic  rhyme — 
And  fondly  deemed  its  sheen  a  living  thing. 


[43] 


KEATS  AND  FANNY  B 

A  STAR  beheld  an  image  in  a  spring — 
His  own  beams  robed  in  heavenly  vesturing. 
Out-burned  his  fire  and  faded  from  the  sky: 
The  clear  earth-rill  purled  on  indifferently. 


[44] 


THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE  IS  LOVE 

WE  know  not  the  very  heart  of  the  lute; 
We  only  hear  the  beat  of  music's  wings — 
The  garment's  rustle  as  it  shaping  clings 
About  the  bodied  soul — whether  low  flute 
Or  trumpet's  large,  world-full,  resounding  bruit 
That  summons  to  enchant  the  state  of  kings. 
We  hear  the  organ's  far-drawn  murmurings, 
But  from  the  holiest  Holy  all  is  mute: 

Maybe  we  host  an  angel  unaware. 
We  cherish  knowledge,  tongues  and  prophecies, 
Forgetful  how  these  vanish  into  air, 
Whereof  they  frame  their  winning  mysteries. 

Love,  love  alone,  in  music,  life  and  art, 
Remains  the  angelic  friend-guest  of  the  heart. 


[45] 


HIS  SILENT  FLUTE 

To  Sidney  Lanier,  1881 

EACH  life  is  tinct  with  joyousness  and  pain: 

A  web  of  measured  silences  and  sound, 

In  subtle  plan  of  patterns  deftly  wound; 

And  with  a  heart  of  love,  is  Music.     Rain, 

Sunshine,  are  tides  of  one  wavering  Main, 

Whose  throbbing  bears  the  prow  of  life  to  port. 

E'en  on  the  parapet  of  Hatred's  fort, 

Some  bruised  violet  of  love  will  fain 

Its  banner  wave  for  Brotherhood  and  God. 

Such  alternates  do  fleck  the  whole  vast  round — 

A  star,  a  comet,  lost,  is  a  planet  found. 

This  comfort  would  I  take  from  star  and  clod — 

I  hear  it  murmuring  from  his  silent  flute : 

Death  is  not  death,  but  life  that's  briefly  mute. 


[46] 


TO  A  POET  DYING  YOUNG 

Sidney  Lanier 

MUCH  like  some  mountain-springing  crystal  rill, 
Or  burgeoning  of  trees  that  bravely  climb 
The  sunniest  crag  of  all ;  now  like  the  mime 
Of  mock-bird  trilling  gaily,  then  death-still, 
As  if  his  mate-bird's  answer  hushed  his  trill, 
Or  some  god  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  'Tis  time 
For  holy  meditation," — so  thy  rhyme 
Did  falter,  seeking  beauty  and  love's  will. 

Too  short,  ah,  sadly  short,  thy  days  for  song, 
For    work,    for    prayer,    for    far-envoyaging 

thought! 

Ah  me !  no  time  nor  strength  for  righting  wrong, 
Thy  soul  well  knew  man's  apathy  had  wrought. 
Thou  couldst  but  trill,  as  thou  didst  limp  along, 
High  hints  of  music's  heaven,  thy  soul  had 

caught. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

To  All  Who  Love  Sidney  Lanier 

As  in  one  planet-mocking  globe  of  dew 
May  lucent  glow  the  f ull-spanned  arc  of  blue : 

Since  one  clear  stroke  of  Time's  star-guiding 

bell 
Unending  happiness  or  woe  may  tell: 

Since  came  a  world  of  light  from  just  one  word 
Of  God,  and  all  the  stars  of  morning  heard: 

Then  let  one  murmured  word  from  me  express 
A  fervent  round  of  grateful  tenderness. 


[48] 


THE  WESTERN  GATE 

GOLD  in  the  morn;  silver  shine  at  noon; 

Gold  after  noon ;  'tis  twilight  now. 
Dusk  wanes  the  day;  old  voices  croon; 
And  pales  the  aureole  on  age's  brow. 
Fitful,  the  flame  upon  the  cottage  fire 
Burns  like  the  heart  of  chill  desire. 
The   limbs,   with   ache,   like   worn-out   timbers 

creak ; 
And  scarce  the  smoke  may  climb  the  chimney 

peak. 

Dim  sounds  of  uproar  that  the  Present  makes 
Come    through   the    window;    Memory    fonder 

shakes 

Old  sides  to  laughter  and  old  hearts  to  tears. 
All  brave  delights  of  youth  give  way  to  fears. 
Grandchildren  romp  not  with  the  glee  of  yore. 
A  sadness  never  felt  before 
Creeps  in  the  mind.     The  hand  clasps  not  as 

strong. 

New  songs  sing  not  as  that  old  song — 
Clear  with  the  truth 
Of  candid  youth, 
And  sweet  forsooth 
[49] 


As  the  limpid,  twinkling  sheen  of  the  Romance 

well, 

Or  sweetheart-gospels  lovers  tell, 
As  truest  chime  of  the  marriage  bell, 
As  loveliest  child-bloom  ever  fell 

From  gardens  where  home-blisses  grow 
And  joys  of  heaven  with  angels  dwell 

And  Love's  uncankered  roses  blow. 

Cometh  now  life's  afterglow: 

O'er  yonder  sun  the  clouds  drift  slow, 
Like  sleepy  birds  that  seek  the  nest, 
On  drowsy-moving  wings  almost  at  rest — 
So  smooth  their  flight  into  yon  darkling  West. 

Gold  in  the  morn;  silver  shine  at  noon; 
Gold  after  noon;  new  soft  lights  beam, 
Whereof  the  heart  of  youth  may  merely  dream : 
Pearl,  amber,  lucent  sard  are  in  yon  gleam. 
In  circles  ever  moveth  life  around, 
Without  decline ;  eve  puts  no  term  nor  bound ; 
Age  at  old  portals  is  await 
For  that  new  scene  beyond  the  gate. 
This  little  grain  of  life  was  sweet :  how  grand 
The  planetary  round  of  God's  new  land! 

[50] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  dav  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1  00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  m 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


l3Dec'6lJB 

,°x Ci^^  "^    ^""* 

DEC  2  9  1961 


50m-8,'26 


Lj'-*l  +  J+*r*    •  '*••'•  "^ **  * 

Sonneit 
OCT  25  19» 


13192 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


